


People Might Talk

by songlin



Series: What Comes Undone [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Smut, girl!sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:36:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after their first time in bed together, John came down the stairs to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the couch with her laptop perched on her feet, a bedsheet wrapped around her like a sort of toga. It took John a moment to realize why this was strange. Chiefly, it was because there was nothing under the bedsheet. (Can be read as a stand-alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Might Talk

_“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”_

_John quickly realized that the violin and the bouts of silence were hardly the worst about Sherlock. But the best of her certainly evened everything out._

\---

Had it been any other pair of roommates, adding sex to the delicately balanced equation that made up their relationship would have had disastrous results. But then, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had never been just any pair of roommates.

The morning after their first time in bed together, John came down the stairs to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged on the couch with her laptop perched on her feet, a bedsheet wrapped around her like a sort of toga. It took John a moment to realize why this was strange.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“Clothes.”

“What about them?”

“Put some on?”

Sherlock huffed. “Haven’t anything clean.” She adjusted the bedsheet around her shoulders and squinted at her laptop screen.

“I did the laundry Wednesday.”

“Yes.”

“It’s Friday.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

John sighed heavily and set the kettle on the stove. “Just promise me you haven’t set them on fire or infected them with some deadly virus or something.”

“Small leak in my closet.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “What--no. Never mind. You know what? Don’t tell me what leaked. Just tell me what sort of protective gloves I’ll have to wear when I do the washing-up. In the meantime, go put on one of my shirts or something; I can’t deal with this nonsense at this hour of the morning.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked from her laptop screen to John. “Only if you’ll fetch it for me. I’m very busy.”

John had no idea why he obeyed. When he tossed Sherlock the t-shirt the bedsheet slipped down to her waist. John tried not to look, but it would be hard for any man so inclined to miss that it was rather cold in the apartment and that Sherlock had very sensitive nipples.

She pulled the shirt over her head, never looking away from the screen. John poured himself a cup of tea. The apartment was silent for the next five minutes or so apart from the occasional tapping of keys from Sherlock and the clink of the mug on the table from John. When he finished his tea and put the mug in the sink, he turned round and found Sherlock leaning against the edge of the table, tapping her fingers against her chin. She had abandoned the sheet and was wearing nothing but his shirt. It hung loosely against her body, reaching just to the tops of her thighs and not quite covering her entire bum.

“You’ve been avoiding looking at me,” she said.

“You’re quite right.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, God, tell me you don’t have some kind of absurd, puritanical guilt complex...no, if you did you’d never have slept with me in the first place. No...” She quirked an eyebrow. Her expression was unreadable. “You’re aroused.”

“Good deduction, that,” John said, drumming his fingers against the counter.

“It’s the clothing disparity,” she said slowly, moving away from the table and stalking toward him like a hunting cat. “No. It’s that they’re _your_ clothes.” She was right in front of him, bracing her hands on the sink on either side of John.

“And the fact that I could _cut glass_ on your nipples,” said John, eyeing them.

Half her mouth curved in a predatory sort of smirk. “I’m wearing your shirt and nothing else, and you love it,” Sherlock breathed. She was achingly close to John’s face. “My hamstrings are sore from riding you last night. Can you feel it?”

She guided his hands to the back of her thigh where he could, in fact, feel how tense the muscles were.

“Yes, what a good doctor,” she sighed, leaning into him and pressing those fine breasts into his chest.

John shivered. “Love a woman in a shirt and nothing else the morning after.”

“I can tell.” She canted her hips against the evidence.

“Sherlock,” John said calmly.

“Yes?” She was untying his pajama bottoms.

“Onto the counter.”

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was on the edge of the countertop, John’s shirt rucked up under her armpits, her legs around his waist as he braced himself against the cabinets and thought of cold exam rooms and how to perform an appendectomy because he didn’t want to finish just yet.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, gripping his shoulders with white knuckles. “John, _yes_.”

\---

_“You have a boyfriend?”_

_“Boys, not really my area.”_

_“...oh. So do you have a girlfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”_

_“I know it’s fine.”_

_“So you have a girlfriend.”_

_“No.”_

_“Oh, okay. So you’re unattached then. Just like me. Fine. Good.”_

_“...John, er...I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered, I’m not really looking for any--”_

_“No, no, that’s not what I...no! I’m just saying...”_

_“I understand how you may have gotten the idea, but--”_

_“No. Sherlock, I’m just saying...it’s all fine.”_

_“...Good. Thank you.”_

\---

They spent the rest of the day curled up on the sofa, watching crap telly while Sherlock combed her fingers through John’s hair. It was oddly domestic, though not entirely unexpected.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

“This may be a case of shutting the barn door after the horses have escaped, but...protection?”

“I’ve got the implant. Mycroft insisted some time ago.”

John rolled his eyes. “Should have known. Mycroft knows all.”

Sherlock tutted. “Not all.”

“Actually, I’m fairly certain he’ll be sending us some sort of congratulatory note shortly.”

“If he knew he would have called to gloat. He has not, ergo--”

Sherlock’s phone dinged.

There was a beat.

John’s face split into a smile. “That did _not_ just happen.”

“The things I am going to do to that man,” Sherlock said furiously, wriggling out from behind John and reaching for the phone.

“Oh, no he doesn’t,” John said, and kicked the phone out of reach.

Sherlock grinned and pinned him to the couch, and there was no more talk of Mycroft.

\---

_“Look at you, ripping off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”_

_“People do little else.”_

_They laughed breathlessly, and later there were laser sights trained at them again and Sherlock almost shot a bomb, but they both came out alright and so it was all fine._


End file.
